Page 61 of The Crimson Lily
We enter the large room together, and it’s like stepping into the past—the 1920s, to be specific. The oiled floor of dark oak gleams under a chandelier of a hundred little flames. Each booth is made of black leather seats and round tables that match the floor. There are black-and-white photos of people, horse carriages, and old cars scattered around the walls, which are covered in dark olive-green wallpaper. The bar at the end of the room is the heart of this place. There are people, mostly men in suits, sitting there, talking loudly in Italian over the music. Those who sit in the booths are either smoking cigars or playing cards. The women are gorgeous brunettes with endless legs and flashy dresses.
Among the clientele, at the farthest table from the bar, sits a familiar face who waves at us to catch our attention. Chiara Zanetti waits there, a thick glass of something red lodged between her hands. She wears a tight black dress, and her nails are painted flawlessly with an electric-blue color. I go sit beside her, expecting Giovanni to take the seat facing us, but he goes for the bar instead.
“Drink?” he checks with me.
I pause for a second, then figure I might as well get myself a beverage. “Whiskey, please. Single malt.”
His eyes gleam. “A woman who drinks whiskey is a woman who knows what she wants,” he notes, a didactic finger pointed at me.
I hide a scoff in a laugh and turn to Chiara, eager to finish our conversation from this morning.
She’s the first to speak. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you more in the garden,” she confesses, her flawless bushy eyebrows curving apologetically.
“You can tell me now,” I encourage, more impatient than eager.
“Let me just start from the beginning.” She bites her lower lip nervously. “Six months ago, William returned to Rome with an artifact that was supposed to stay in Paris?—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “What do you meanWilliam returned? Was he often in Rome?”
Chiara nods furtively. “William was a baron of the Syndicate. He held meetings and oversaw activities in Paris and Rome. Most Syndicate gatherings are held in Rome.”
Giovanni hands me a glass of whiskey and takes a seat in front of us. He leans back and observes me, signing for me to taste it. I take a reluctant sip, knowing he’ll expect some kind of exalted reaction.
Wow, this is a delight!
I round my eyes in surprise and let the flavor open my senses.
“This is good!” I exclaim, clicking my tongue. “What is it?”
“Puni,” he says proudly. “Italian single malt. We make pasta and pizza, and we make good whiskey too!”
I smile in approval, but my lips quickly return to a serious stance.
“Why did you want to meet me, Chiara?” I inquire. “Whyme?”
She takes a deep breath, and our eyes meet. There is a brief spark of hesitation, similar to the glow of distrust, but it’s quickly replaced by determination.
“William trusted you, but you knew the Kinzhal Strastey did not belong in the hands of the Syndicate,” she begins to explain. “Before that move, there were tensions between multiple organizations. The mafia. The Bratva. Even the Triad and Yakuza were mixed up in this stupid competition.” Chiara takes a sip of her drink as if to collect her thoughts. “The dagger was an act of war.”
I shake my head, having learned nothing useful. Sure, crime bosses all over the world like to play chess! But what does this have to do withme?
“What’s so special about this dagger?” I ask, still shaking my head with a frown.
Chiara inspects me, incredulous, then she seems to remember something. I lost my memory—I need more than general details. “The Syndicate has been recruiting members from each rival organization for decades now. The balance of power has shifted. The Kinzhal Strastey is not a simple object. It’s a key.”
Thanks, Chiara, but I already know that. I heard that before, in Paris. Those exact words spoken by Yi Zhang, whom I now conjecture to be Triad turned Syndicate at some point in his life. Why not, after all?
“A key to what?” I query, growing very impatient now. “To a door? To a building? To a bank?”
Chiara shakes her head. “No, no, not a key to a place.” She clears her throat to explain. “It’s an authentication key.”
My eyes round more than Chiara’s earrings. I still have absolutely no idea what’s going on here, and it’s really getting on my nerves now. I down a large portion of my Italian whiskey to calm myself.
“The dagger is an access key to a covert Russian satellite weapon system,” she discloses, almost whispering.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I just stare at her, actually at both of them, my mouth agape, not knowing how to respond. My eyes bounce between Giovanni and Chiara, perpetually, like the last thing I’ll ever do in my life is switch between his face and hers.
